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James Fosdike.
Nazzacoorte.
Adelaide, SA.
I walk mostly. If it’s longer than walking distance, I ride a giant kitten.
My beard.
My boobs? They’re all real.
Darth Vader, just to see how he drank coffee. He’s a real person, isn’t he?
A jaunty dance, followed by a strip-tease.
Because trying to ride it when it’s on its back gives onlookers the wrong impression.
He should stop eating wood if he’s only going to chuck it up all the time. Stupid Woodchuck.
Pretty much all of them. I love clients.
Winston Hemsforth Collypibbles the Third. He’s a multi-tentacled, monocle wearing being from another dimension that eats rainbows and poops diamonds. He loves commissioning me for portraits, which he pays for with his own poo.
“It’s like his brain dances with his fingers.”
What’s ‘tea’?
Painting nothing but pumpkins for a month when I was in Kindy. I NAILED those pumpkins. I’ve never drawn one since.
Asleep.
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